


definitely not writing lyrics about starlight eyes

by milominderbinder



Series: maia's shameless fic a day in the month of may [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:54:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1552832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milominderbinder/pseuds/milominderbinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Milkovich siblings make up one of Chicago’s fastest rising rock bands, <i>Fuck U Up</i>.  Hot lead singer Mandy and ladies-man drummer Iggy have plenty of fans, but Mickey, the grumpy bass player, is largely ignored in favour of his siblings.</p><p>Except, that is, by one fan in particular.  Because ever since he found out that Mickey writes all of the band’s songs, Ian Gallagher has been harboring a bit of a crush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	definitely not writing lyrics about starlight eyes

The magazine hits Mickey’s face with a _thwack._

Groaning, he forces himself to open his eyes.  He’d had _maybe_ three hours sleep last night, and had just crawled into bed to attempt some more, but of course the world has different ideas.  He rolls over, and, of course, sees Mandy stood above him. 

“ _What_?” he moans, resisting the urge to throw the nearest heavy object at her and just go back to sleep.  She rolls her eyes and throws herself down onto the bed next to him, grabs the magazine and sets it down in front of him pointedly. 

“Recognise anyone?” she asks.

And - yeah.  He does.  That’s Mandy, on the front cover of some glossy hipster magazine, wearing a skimpy as fuck outfit and too much eyeliner and clutching a microphone to her mouth like she’s about to give it a blowjob.  It’s a picture from their last show, he realises - it’s hard to forget that place, which had been so fucking stuffy Mickey had almost passed out three songs in.  After another moment of looking, he realises it’s not just Mandy on the cover.  Behind her shoulder, he can see Iggy bashing away at the drums.  And to the left - what looks like a slither of his own elbow, the edge of his bass.  His face is mostly covered up by the headline, one of his eyes and his scowling mouth managing to poke out between the letters. 

“Congrats,” he says dryly, shoving the magazine back at her and reaching over for the packet of cigs next to his bed.  Mandy huffs at him.

“This is a big _deal,_ asshole.  This is one of the top music magazines in Chicago!  We’re actually, like, _famous!_ ” 

“What’s famous is your tits, Mandy, in case you haven’t noticed they take up half the fuckin’ picture.”

She slaps him around the back of the head and snatches the cigarette out of his mouth, but doesn’t say anything else.  Just hops off the bed, clutching the magazine happily, and bounces out of the room, humming one of their songs under her breath.

Mickey sighs, and pulls the pillow over his head.

\--

The magazine hits Ian’s face with a _thwack._

“Got you something,” comes Lip’s voice, and Ian can hear his grin even before he snatches the magazine away.

“It’s a magazine,” Ian observes dryly, sitting up.  He’d been lying down on the couch watching some shit documentary on the TV, trying to relax after just finishing up an eight hour shift at the coffee shop he’d managed to con his way into a job at for the summer.  The last thing he needed right now was Lip being an asshole, but that was Lip’s favourite thing to be, so he wasn’t sure it could be avoided.

“Yeah, look at the cover,” Lip said, dropping down onto the couch next to Ian and grinning wickedly.  “Swiped it from the free clinic waiting room - thought you might want it for your spank bank.”

Ian rolls his eyes, but flips the magazine over to look at the cover - and then blushes furiously.

The headline reads _“Fuck U Up - Chicago’s next breakout stars?”_  and is set on top of a picture of Ian’s favourite band.  Most of the picture is taken up by the lead singer, Mandy, but in the corner underneath the text, Ian can see the bass player too.  Mickey.  Mickey’s Ian’s favourite, something Lip knows and constantly teases him about.  

Ian rolls the magazine up and hits Lip over the head with it, and Lip laughs, gets up and wanders towards the kitchen, clearly content that his joke has landed well enough.

When he’s gone, Ian unfurls the magazine.  No point in throwing it away now it’s _here,_ after all.

\--

“Fuck _youuuuuu,_ fuck _youuuuuuuuu,_ fuck _youuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.”_

Mickey rolls his eyes as he walks past Mandy.  Admittedly this is the only band he’s ever been in, but he’s pretty sure other singers have a _much_ less aggressive vocal warm up.

Their show is supposed to start in ten minutes.  They’re in the back room of the club they’re playing - not exactly a luxury dressing room or anything, but it has a mirror which is all Mandy cares about, and a groupie who’s managed to sneak back there which is all _Iggy_ cares about, and it’s a hell of a lot better than the dive bars they were playing just a few months ago.

Mickey doesn’t really have a pre-show ritual.  His siblings do, though; as he sits in the corner of the room and boredly tunes his guitar, he watches them.  Mandy singing her curse words and slathering on red lipstick, Iggy tapping his drumsticks against the ass of the girl who’s currently falling about in his lap, sucking on his neck.  Mickey rolls his eyes at it all, just like he does every time.  Sometimes he thinks he’s the only one of them who remembers they’re not _actually_ that big of a deal.

While they act like they’re the new Metallica or something, he just sits there, tunes his guitar, waits for the show to start.

\--

Ian doesn’t try to get close to the stage.  It’s a lesson he learned pretty early on when he started going to _Fuck U Up_ ’s shows, back when they were still playing smaller clubs - if you get into the mosh, you end up missing most of the actual show, can barely hear the music over the crowd’s screaming, and more often than not get involved in some kind of altercation which ends in you being kicked out.

Instead, he heads to a table, at the back of the room and just off to the side.  Most people are crowded in the centre, keeping their eyes on Mandy and Iggy, who are the _stars_ and always take centre stage.  But from the edge of the room, Ian can see Mickey.  Mickey, who always stands at the edge of the stage, and who never looks at the crowd, just scowls down at the floor and plucks at the strings of his bass like he’s not even paying attention to it, like it’s just second nature to him.

Ian loves their music, but equally, he loves watching Mickey.  He can’t explain it; Mickey’s the only one in the band who seems to have no showmanship, who never dresses up for shows but always just wear black jeans and a t-shirt, who doesn’t do publicity, who doesn’t even really seem to _like_ being in a band.  Still, Ian’s intrigued by him.  Has no real idea _why,_ but is intrigued anyway.

\--

Mickey doesn’t look at the crowd while he plays.  He stares down, at his own fingers on the strings of his guitar.  Out of the corner of his eye he can see Mandy thrashing about, Iggy going crazy on the drums, and he can hear the screams of the crowd, sure.  But if he doesn’t focus on any of that, it’s almost like he’s back at home, lying on his bed on a sunny afternoon, a cigarette dangling between his lips, plucking the strings of his bass without intent, without meaning.  It’s like it doesn’t matter.

Mickey tends to freak out when things matter.  So it’s better - it’s better if he doesn’t look at the crowd.

\--

The show goes on into the early hours of the morning.  Ian drinks four beers and sings along under his breath, but other than that he doesn’t really do anything but _watch_ the show.

When it’s over, _Fuck U Up_ plays an encore, and then leaves the stage for good,

Ian’s struck with an idea.  A stupid, really ridiculous idea, probably fuelled by the fact that he’s nearing tipsy and feeling just a little bit bolder than usual.  But he knows this club - Fiona waitressed it a couple of summers earlier.  And he knows how to get backstage.  It’s not like there’d be security or something, the band’s not quite that big yet.  Ian could - well, Ian could go and _talk_ to them.

He knows he’s acting like a crazy groupie, but he doesn’t care.  If he gets a chance to talk to Mickey, even for a moment, see if he’s really as interesting as Ian’s been thinking he is all this time -

Ian makes up his mind, downs the last dregs of his beer, and heads to the side door.

\--

Much like Mandy and Iggy have a ritual _before_ a show, they pretty much always do the same thing after one, too.  Iggy, predictable as he is, takes off with the first girl who offers - tonight a chubby redhead who had tried to fling herself on stage during the show.  Mandy always disappears into the bathroom, to take off her copious amounts of makeup and change into a ratty pair of sweatpants and one of Mickey’s shirts, because the skintight leather leggings and crop tops she wears during shows aren’t really conducive to driving home in.  All this means that Mickey is usually left alone backstage for a while, waiting around for her to be ready to load up their shitty van and set off.

Tonight, he packs up his guitar and then sits down in the corner, playing snake on his shitty old phone and picturing just how comfortable his bed is going to be when he sinks into it tonight.  he stays like that for maybe ten minutes, so used to waiting on Mandy that he hardly even gets bored anymore, before he spots -

Well, before he spots the _guy_.

He’s walking through the staff door, but is pretty obviously not staff - he looks shifty as fuck and like he couldn’t be any _less_ allowed to be backstage.  He’s a redhead, about Mickey’s age, wearing jeans which show off his ass a little too well, which distracts Mickey for a moment, and one of their band tees, under an unbuttoned plaid shirt.  Mickey snorts.  A groupie, then.

“Can I fuckin’ help you?” Mickey asks, when it becomes clear the guy isn’t gonna go away.  The guy jumps slightly, spins around and then freezes when he locks his eyes on Mickey.

“I, uh,” the guy says, and Mickey raises an eyebrow at him.  “Um, I really liked the show.”

His freckled cheeks turn slightly pink.  It’s kind of adorable.  Mickey squashes that thought as soon as he has it, but - well, it’s true.

“Look, if you’re here to try and fuck Mandy, you’re wasting your time.  She ain’t into desperate groupies.”

The guy laughs at that, which surprises Mickey for a second.  He feels like he’s missing something - and he doesn’t like missing things.

“No, man.  Um, I actually wanted to see you.”

“ _Me?_ ”

“Yeah.  Um, I’m a fan.  Of yours.”

Mickey doesn’t actually know how to respond.  He can feel his jaw hanging open like a moron, but it feels numb, and it takes him a few moments to manage to snap it shut again.

“Why the fuck would you be a fan of _me?”_ he asks.

It just - it doesn’t makes sense.  Their band has a tried and tested formula.  Mandy’s the hot, slutty lead singer, so she gets most of the attention, and all the guys love her.  Iggy’s funny and charismatic and he does the most publicity, so he gets any focus that’s left over, and all the girls love _him._ But Mickey - Mickey’s the fucking _bass player,_ who stands at the side of the stage, who doesn’t do interviews or talk to fans.  And he’s fine with that, getting attention like Mandy and Iggy do is kind of his worst nightmare, but -

He just has no idea why this guy would be a fan of _him_ of all people.

“Well, I just think you’re talented,” the guy says.  He seems a little taken aback, but it can’t be anything compared to how _Mickey’s_ feeling.  “Y’know, your music, and your writing - all your songs have such great lyrics.”

“Who the fuck said I write our songs?” Mickey huffs.  He specifically told Mandy he _didn’t_ want anyone to know that.  He doesn’t think he’d ever be able to go out in public if people knew _he_ was the one who’d written their lyrics - some of which were whiny and emotional as fuck.

“Uh, the credits in your album?” the guys says.  “I mean, it was in the small print, at the back, I don’t think anyone else really realises, but - uh - well, I did.”

Mickey pauses for a second.  Stares at the guy.  This gorgeous, buff asshole, who apparently likes Mickey’s band enough to read the small print on the back of their album cover.

“You got a name?” he asks, because it somehow seems like the rational next thing to do.

“Ian,” the guy tells him, breaking into a disbelieving smile which warms Mickey’s reluctant heart.  “Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey stands up, and walks towards Ian Gallagher.  Stares at him.  His head is already twisting with lyrics about freckle constellations and boys made of fire, but he tries to squash it down - his whole life, the one thing he’s _refused_ to do is write a song about a boy, let alone one he’s known for two minutes.   He knows he’s gay, and he can handle it, but nobody _else_ needs to know it.  Besides, he doesn’t even know this guy.  No matter how cute he is, that’s kind of pathetic.

Mickey’s not sure what he had been intending to say when he walked up to the guy, because once they’re actually face to face, everything in his head seems to fall away.  Ian Gallagher has strange eyes, a kind of ice-green with flecks of blue.  Ian Gallagher’s mouth is hanging slightly open, like he can’t actually believe Mickey is standing this close to him.

Mickey’s whole body is betraying him, because he feels like he can’t breathe, and because it’s not listening to his brain, which is telling him to step away, step away, step the _fuck_ away before he does something dumb.  

He doesn’t step away.  Instead, he does something dumb.

He raises one hand, slowly, and cradles Ian Gallagher’s face.  Takes a deep breath to watch Ian’s reaction, and finds nothing bad in it, just that his breath speeds up and his pupils widen, like he maybe even wants to be this close to Mickey.  Mickey is crazy and Mickey is dumb and for a moment, Mickey thinks about _kissing_ him.

And then -

“ _Mickey!”_ his sister’s voice yells.  “You ready to go?”

He pulls his hand away from Ian’s face the moment before she rounds the corner.  She hardly even seems to see Ian, just picks up Mickey’s guitar case and walks out again, confident that he’ll follow her.

“See you around, Ian Gallagher,” he says, and then walks away.

\--

That night, Ian goes home shaking, and jerks off in the bathroom, biting down on his fist when he comes to keep from yelling.

When he goes to sleep, he dreams of Mickey licking his guitar, writing a song about erections, and proposing with a guitar pick.  It’s a confusing night.

\--

That night, Mickey goes home shaking, and jerks off in the shower, biting down on his tongue when he comes to keep from yelling.

When he goes back to his room, he can’t sleep, and ends up sitting up for hours, furiously scribbling in his notebook.  It’s all lyrics about redheaded boys with wicked grins and eyes full of green starlight, and he hates himself for it, but he has to admit the words are pretty good.

\--

Ian pulls double shifts for a week to buy tickets to _Fuck U Up_ ’s next concert.  Fiona’s never worked at this club, so he vows to do recon beforehand.

Figure out how to get backstage.

**Author's Note:**

> for the fic-a-day-in-may challenge!
> 
> come witness my general death by shameless: [mickeymilk.tumblr.com](http://mickeymilk.tumblr.com)


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